


Against Shallow Waters

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a beautiful place, and there was no doubt in Greg’s mind that he wanted to share it with his favorite person in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against Shallow Waters

**Author's Note:**

> For [duchesscloverly](http://duchesscloverly.tumblr.com), a fantastic mystrade shipper who promised me a vidlet in exchange for a ficlet. I go all out with ficlets, and I loved writing this one. :)

Greg Lestrade stood calf-deep in the warm, tropical water, hands in the pockets of his shorts, eyes at the blue horizon. The water stretched out for ages, nothing but cerulean glass until it fell off the world’s end. His feet were snug as they sunk into the golden sand beneath him, and for a long, blissful moment, he could almost drown out the sounds of tourist life from behind him.

He’d been here once before, two years ago. He’d returned, “brown as a nut,” Sherlock had said, and showed up just in time for the detective and his doctor’s outing to Baskerville. Greg didn’t remember all of what happened that day, besides hunting an imaginary hound and watching a man blow himself to death, but what he could remember, quite vividly, was his snappy response to Sherlock’s comment.

“I don’t just do what your brother tells me,” he’d said. And that was true, sometimes Mycroft did what he told him to, mostly along the lines of sucking his cock or getting on all fours for him. 

Indeed, he and Mycroft Holmes had begun a sexual relationship a few months before that comment, and since then, had clumsily transitioned sex into romance. It was a weird happenstance, how it all began, as Greg had been called into Mycroft’s office and questioned, quite bluntly, about the lack of sexual release in his life.

“Your wife’s still cheating on you, is she not?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“You stand in my office, this is most definitely my _business_.”

Greg grunted in defeat and let Mycroft pound him for answers until Greg was red in the face and swollen in his pants. Mycroft had then automatically locked the doors and propositioned him. He’d clearly deduced Greg’s attraction to him, and with a slide of his cold eyes, he’d returned the sentiment. He’d then said that, should Greg want him, which he obviously did, they could engage in frequent sexual activity.

He’d addressed like a medical problem in need of solving, but curious and hot for more, Greg tentatively agreed. What followed was definitely anything but medical, and happened to be the most passionate, heady bout of frotting and snogging atop a desk he’d ever experienced.

It went on like that for a while, until, a year and half later, during the time in which Sherlock was supposedly dead, they became something more.

That something more went on for a bit, and had eventually brought them here. Well, Greg had dragged Mycroft here, who’d come with the assurance that Sherlock didn’t need him around to plan a wedding. 

They were a few days into the trip as Greg stood now, polo shirt leaving his bare forearms tanning in the sun.

He was enjoying himself, very much, when Mycroft called to him.

“Gregory,” he shouted from his spot on the sand. 

“Yes, dear?” Lestrade mocked, turning his face to catch his rumbling voice.

“You’re going to burn.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Prove it.” 

Lestrade sighed, hint of a smile on his lips, and turned ‘round, wading back through the water. He knew that Mycroft meant  _Come here,_  and he complied easily, wondering if he could coax Mycroft to return to the water with him. He doubted it, as he looked now at the shore, where Mycroft sat in the shade of a ridiculous umbrella chair combo. His slanted sunglasses hid his sharp eyes, book resting on the towel in his lap. Greg moved up the beach as he looked on, feet screaming at the hot sand. He glanced around the place, at the bikini clad women and shirtless men lounging in various positions all down the shore. He and Mycroft had gotten a good spot, off to the side of the main beach, just at the edge of a shady grove. It was a beautiful place, and there was no doubt in Greg’s mind that he wanted to share it with his favorite person in the world.

Said person was now scowling at him, peering through dark glasses. “What are you doing.” he said, lips crinkled into a pout.

“Enjoying my tropical holiday, you?”

“Suffering. Deeply.” Mycroft said, and even through the thick of his shades, Greg could see him dart his eyes around the place, deducing the swimmers and tourists milling about the beach.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.” Lestrade took the towel from his shoulders and tossed it onto the pile of their things. It was stupidly sentimental of him, but he loved seeing their clothes and belongings mixed together.

“It is, Gregory, it is. I don’t know why you even brought me here.”

Lestrade laughed, a hollow chuckle, turning his face towards the sky. “Howabout, because you love me?”

Mycroft huffed without agreeing.

“Oh, don’t do that.”

Again, nothing.

“Don’t do that, that thing where you’re this cold, aloof stereotype.”

Mycroft ran his fingers over the red binding of his book. “I don’t know what you mean, this is just what I’m like.”

“No, it’s not. You act all official and government-y,” Mycroft scoffed, but Greg continued all the same. “No, don’t laugh, that’s what it is. You stay bundled up, pale as a milk, and say you hate it here, when I know for a fact, you’re grateful to be away from it all.”

“Incorrect, I loathe that I’m missing work for this.”

Throwing his hands up, Greg growled. “God, you’re still doing it! Playing ‘The Iceman’ again! Mycroft, I’ve had you on your knees, hands bound behind your back with one of your expensive ties, begging for my cock, and you’re going to pretend like you feel nothing for this, for me. Okay. Fine, whatever.”

Greg shuffled his feet in the sand, stomping a few clumps, angry, but not really, as he waited for Mycroft to respond. He didn’t. For once, it seemed he couldn’t find the words to say, even if he wanted to. He did look embarrassed though, and even let out a little gasp of “Greg!” when Lestrade mentioned their risky sex.

A warm wind passed over the beach, ruffling the silver tuft of Greg’s hair and the canopy of Mycroft’s chair. Greg looked right at Mycroft, his boyfriend, wishing a thousand times over that they were alone in bed, whispering sweet nothings to each other like they often did after the high of an orgasm. But they were here, on a beach, a few miles from their suite, even more miles away from London. The chimes of sultry laughter on the wind from the couples beside them nearly made Greg sick. They had it so _easy,_  didn’t they, happy, fit, young straight couples. It didn’t always have to be so bloody  _difficult_ for him and Mycroft,did it? Surely, it didn’t have to.

With a defeated grumble, Greg moved closer to Mycroft and dropped to his knees before him. He reached up and carefully took the sunglasses from his face, folding them and setting them atop the satchel beside Mycroft’s chair. He looked into his eyes then, eyes which held so much more emotion and meaning than they let on. 

“You don’t have to do this, every time. You always do.” Greg said, voice soft, pleading lightly.

Mycroft covered Greg’s hands with his own, huffing out a small breath. “Yes, I know.”

“Then why do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve been fooling around for nearly three years, dating for one and a half, and yet you still cringe when I call you my boyfriend. Why do you do that, Myc?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“Do you not love me?” Greg’s stomach coiled in saying this, since he’d never had a verbal conformation outside of “I love it when you fuck me like this.” He still had his doubts, of course he could. Mycroft was ridiculously cold about so many things, and as much as he hated it, Greg knew he wasn’t an exception. He didn’t know where they stood, not really.

Mycroft took a moment to respond, teasing Greg’s bated breath all the while. “Greg...” he finally said, eyes moving to the horizon.

“Tell me if you don’t, because I’m in it. I’ve been in it since Sherlock OD’d in his Montague flat, and you called me and asked me to bring him to you. It’s been since then, Mycroft, that I’ve been in love with you, and you’ve not so much as let me believe you feel the same.” It was a wordy confession, but if there was any time and place for it, so far away from the lives they led back in England, it was here. “So please, tell me if you don’t.”

Something a lot like regret passed in Mycroft’s green-grey eyes, and his plump mouth relaxed and parted slightly. He still struggled to hold Greg’s eyes, but he did, running his fingers over his knuckles. “Gregory... I do. I do love you. Since then, perhaps even before, knowing of your devotion to my brother, to his safety. I just... It’s difficult. For me. I’d told myself for so long that getting involved - “

“I know,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft continued, sure now that he’d say what he needed to. “That being involved was no benefit, and I still believe that. But I’m involved in you, in this, and I have been, amidst this lengthy, ridiculous, heartbreaking ordeal. I’m in love with you, Greg, and I nearly loathe myself for taking so long to say it, but I was sure you knew.”

“I knew. At least, I hoped I knew.” He didn’t actually know, he’d only hoped. There was no way, though, no way to let out strangled, hoarse yelps of a lover’s name in the dead of night without feeling  _anything_  akin to actual love.

“And you made me say it now.” Mycroft’s bottom lip twitched.

“Yeah, yes.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to question Greg. Fingers entwined in his boyfriend’s, Greg still on his knees before him, Mycroft cocked his head. “Why?”

“So I could see it in your eyes the first time you told me. To see if they dilated.” Greg had taught him to do that when questioning criminals. Often when faced with a memory, or in those cases, the truth, their irises would dilate. Greg used it all the time on Sherlock, mostly when he mentioned John. Now, he did it to Mycroft, and, as he’d hoped, he’d seen what he needed to, along with a sheen of pink blush across his cheeks.

“And?”

“And I believe you. God, I believe you, and I love you, and I want to take you to bed right this instant.”

Mycroft smiled and laughed, a real one, and it was beautiful. “We might get sand in our crevices.”

“I don’t mind.” Then Greg leaned up, hands in Mycroft’s, squeezing lightly, and pressed himself in for a soft kiss. He felt his boyfriend, stubborn arse of a boyfriend, smile against his lips and move to deepen the kiss, untangling their fingers and bringing his hand up to cradle Greg’s head. He swiped his tongue across Greg’s bottom lip and tugged on it with his teeth, much too forward of a kiss for Greg to just pass off as a peck. He hummed against Mycroft’s mouth and nipped at his jaw before pulling back. He looked into Mycroft’s eyes, really looked, and his irises were blown wide, dazed in lust.

It was a good look on him. Much better than ice, Greg decided.


End file.
